


A Moth to the Flame

by ElDiablito_SF



Category: Black Sails
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Prison Sex, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-08
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2019-03-01 20:21:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13302462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElDiablito_SF/pseuds/ElDiablito_SF
Summary: Lieutenant Utley has a reallyhardtime guarding Flint.





	A Moth to the Flame

**Author's Note:**

> This is an officially sanctioned sequel/companion piece to [Gemma’s fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9984371) where Flint jerks off in Eleanor's prison, written with her explicit consent and encouragement. Thanks, Gemma!

***

Lieutenant Utley did not think of himself as a particularly stupid man, which was why the subsequent events would remain an amorphous blemish in the periphery of his self-perception. The fact that the governess had entrusted him to guard a prisoner as important as the dreaded Captain Flint spoke highly enough of his acumen. Not to mention the fact that he had somehow managed to still be alive, which could not be said of many of his brothers-in-arms who had accompanied Woodes Rogers on this misadventure of theirs.

And yet.

And yet, a smart man would certainly not have pressed an ear to the door upon hearing another man’s soft moan. A smart man would most definitely not have followed this unwise action with the application of one’s eye to the keyhole. He would tell himself later that he had merely been checking to make sure the prisoner was not hurt. He would tell himself a lot of lies in the coming days to justify his burning embarrassment.

Even by the light of the dying candle, Utley saw more than enough. Flint’s closed eyes and bitten, swollen lips. His hiked up shirt, exposing the secret map of scars peppering the hills and valleys of his abs, glowing orange in the candlelight like the setting sun. The way his thick neck lolled from side to side as he pinched his own pale nipple and attempted to stifle his soft moan of “ _Fuck_.” Utley’s eye had welded itself to the keyhole, his breath evaporating between parched lips. His cheeks burned with the unmistakable melange of arousal and shame as he adjusted himself inside his tightening breeches.

Flint’s fingers were in his mouth as he worked his cock with long, languid strokes, and Utley caught himself touching his own lips, stroking a finger over his tongue, grinding his straining erection into the unforgiving wood of the prison door. This was madness. Who did this man think he was? What was he thinking of, doing this… this… _who_? Who was he thinking of as his thick, glowing thighs fell open? As he stroked his saliva-slickened fingers over his own puckering hole?

Utley bit his own lips to suppress his furtive moan as Flint’s fingers found and stroked himself from the inside in time to the slide of his fist along the heavy girth of his cock. What would those thighs feel like beneath Utley’s lips? What would that cock taste like on his tongue? Would he choke on it like a school boy discovering another man for the first time? Or would he… would he…

Another long moan tore from Flint’s sweat-dappled throat, blessedly drowning out the echo that fell from Utley’s lips. It was then that the candle went out and the only burn was the crimson shame that scorched Utley’s cheeks and neck. It made his skin itch like some misbegotten venereal disease. He pulled away from the door, adjusted his soiled breeches, and skulked away from Flint’s prison cell, like a kicked stray skulks into the night.

***

It was entirely plausible that Flint had slept for another twelve hours. When he awoke, his limbs were lax and heavy, and a smile that was a final reflection of a pleasant dream settled upon his face like a hovering dragonfly. Who knew that what he’d needed all along had been a pleasant repose in the local fortress. If he had known imprisonment would be this restorative, he would have turned himself over to the authorities years ago.

It was still relatively early in the morning, as was to be surmised from lack of the single stream of sunlight that graced his barred window in the afternoons. Flint rolled over onto his side and smiled at the heaviness of his cock as it plopped against his thigh. He had no regrets about the previous night, nor had he changed his mind about the singular urge to see John Silver again and kiss him. _Soon_ , he thought, with a slow yawn.

The sound of the heavy key being turned in his prison lock stirred Flint from his pleasant reverie, and he quickly sat up, readying to rise should Eleanor once again grace him with her presence. To his surprise, it was his other jailer who had greeted him, balancing not one but two trays upon a trembling arm. Flint remained seated, and merely resigned himself to raising a solitary eyebrow by way of greeting.

“Breakfast,” the man declared laconically, closing the heavy door behind him and approaching Flint with measured steps.

Breakfast had consisted of some bread and cheese, which incidentally was also what dinner had consisted of the previous night. An active siege notwithstanding, Flint imagined Eleanor could've tried a bit harder, owing to their history together.

“What’s that?” Flint nodded towards the second tray.

“Grooming supplies,” the redcoat replied, having cleared his throat. “I thought… I mean, the governess sends…”

“Lieutenant…?”

“Utley,” the man replied, swallowing around an obvious lump.

“The governess, by that you mean Miss Guthrie?”

“Mistress Rogers,” the Lieutenant corrected him and Flint grimaced.

“If you insist.” He watched as the man fidgeted, not quite knowing what to do with his fingers. They touched each object on the little tray as if cataloguing them. Flint’s eyes paused upon the razor blade and small scissors. “She trusts me with these sharp objects, then? That’s somewhat reassuring.”

“I am to remain until you’ve finished,” Utley replied quickly, avoiding Flint’s gaze.

“That’s thoughtful of her,” Flint mused, eyeing the man before him like the local curiosity he was. “I was a Lieutenant once too,” he found himself saying conversationally. He felt light as a feather and chattier than he’d been in months, possibly years.

“Oh?” Utley quirked a brow at him. The meek morning light caught his irises in a kaleidoscope of blues. Why was it always the blue-eyed devils that turned Flint’s head like no one else? “And how did that work out for you?”

“Not bad, I’m a captain now,” Flint shrugged.

Utley laughed. It was spontaneous and free of any artifice, it was entirely too charming, and Flint found himself smiling at his own joke as well, their stretched mouths and exposed teeth mirroring each other.

“Yes,” Utley nodded at last. “I suppose you do outrank me there… Captain.”

It had been a long time since Flint had been flirted with, still, it wasn’t so long that he had lost the ability to recognize it when it was happening. His eyes shifted from the breakfast tray to the grooming tray and back to Lieutenant Utley, starting with his tall boots and sliding upwards to his admittedly handsome face which had been shaved about as recently as his head, which is to say not particularly well. It’s been a long time since Flint had touched another man, but if he was planning on doing it to Silver once he was free, there was certainly no harm in having a bit of a practice round with the attractive redcoat. There was, after all, more than one way to fuck England.

The situation itself was ludicrous. There was a million salacious things Flint could say at that moment, one filthy come-on worse than the prior. Utley’s eyes were pools of unmistakable desire, his handsome features highlighted by the flush that almost matched the hue of his uniform and crept up to his prominent cheekbones from the hidden hollow of his neck.

“Well, Lieutenant?” Flint asked, rising off the bed at last. “Are you going to help me shave or are you more into watching than participating?”

Apparently, that had been the correct thing to say. Utley’s entire body shook as he pulled Flint closer, their shaved heads bumping into each other with a dull thud that almost sent Flint reeling, had Utley’s tongue not found his way into Flint’s mouth to anchor him. He had not been expecting that. Well, he wasn’t entirely sure what exactly he’d been expecting. He’d finally worked himself into a state where he lived past caring, floating on a cloud of desire from the night before and fueled by vague fantasies of an indistinct future. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but it wasn’t _this_.

“How did you know?” Utley muttered in between kisses in a hoarse voice. “I couldn’t tear my eyes away, you’re so…”

“Oh,” Flint gasped. _Oh_.

“Hurry,” Utley moaned into the kiss. “Someone might see us…”

He was rigid, absolutely turgid under the touch of Flint’s searching fingers as they at last alighted on the buttons of his breeches, pulling, tugging as he lowered himself back onto the cot. Utley followed him like a man compelled, his eyes unwaveringly glued to Flint’s own flushed face and chest, while Flint was pulling at the damned scarf Utley insisted on wearing wrapped around his neck. If given time, Flint would find a myriad of better uses for that thing.

“Want to see you,” Utley stated with a ravenous look. “So beautiful.” His hands were pulling up on Flint’s shirt as if unwrapping a gift. “Wanted to touch you so bad, wanted to taste you.”

Flint wouldn’t have pegged Utley for such a talker, but it just went to show that you had no right to claim to know a man unless you’d at the very least held his cock in your hand.

Utley was indeed in a rush, peppering Flint’s pale skin with kisses and bites as he tugged on his trousers, nails scraping down his newly exposed hips, leaving trails of pinkened desire in their wake. “Who are you worried might see us?” Flint asked, grinding his teeth in concentration as he attempted to extricate Utley’s cock out of his blasted uniform. “Eleanor? She’d just as soon mop your brow and tell you to keep going.”

“Is everything just a big joke to you, pirate?”

“Pirate _captain_ ,” Flint emphasized, squeezing a handful of Utley’s sack as a reminder. His eyes fell in an appreciative swoop down to the cock now resting upon his upturned wrist. It stood proud and obscenely pretty, making Flint wonder whether sucking a cock would still be as pleasurable as he’d remembered it.

It _was_ , he was rather pleased to discover, having flipped Utley backwards onto his cot, hands pressed firmly into his narrow hips.  The heaviness of Utley’s swollen cock against Flint’s tongue, the velvety slide that filled his mouth, the unmistakable taste and scent of arousal that enveloped everything and made Flint feel as drunk as an altar boy who’d dipped into the sacramental wine.  Utley’s fingers scrabbled along the bristles of Flint’s scalp, grasping for purchase and finding none.

“Captain!” he’d moaned and bit into his own knuckles as Flint graced his cock with a long, teasing lick, prior to sucking him down again. “ _Captain…_ ” The groan of a dying man. It all washed all too pleasantly over Flint’s head. You did not know a man until you’d held his cock in your mouth, between your teeth, at your mercy, and seen him undone by you.

He’d always been a natural at this, just as at seafaring. Indeed, there was nothing James McGraw _or_ James Flint ever failed at once he’d truly applied himself to the cause. In this case, the cause was making Lieutenant Utley lose it down his throat, and Flint swallowed hungrily around that cock even as it spasmed in his mouth, making sure to milk the last drop from the man who writhed underneath his hold.

“Let me do you…”

This Utley was a wealth of surprises, Flint thought, as he slid up the cot, only to be pulled down into another searing kiss. Their facial hair caught and snagged against each other and Utley’s hand wrapped around Flint’s cock as assuredly as if it had been the hilt of his saber.

“This will suffice,” Flint muttered, thrusting into the Lieutenant’s fist. “I’m close.” And he was.

***

It was much later in the evening that Eleanor Guthrie (who would always be a Guthrie to him, no matter what shitstain she’d chosen to bind herself to with bonds of matrimony) had stopped by again, ostensibly to let him know there had been no change in their situation.

“You look well,” she said, staring Flint up and down with the look of a connoisseur. “Not covered in blood anymore. Your beard hasn’t been so finely groomed in years.”

“I suppose I have you to thank for looking after my grooming needs,” Flint grinned as he sat back down upon his cot. “Lieutenant Utley is a surprisingly skilled barber.”

“If Lieutenant Utley played barber with you,” Eleanor smirked, “that was no one’s idea but Lieutenant Utley’s.” Flint didn’t reply, holding her gaze with detachment. “Please tell me I don’t have to get you another jailer,” Eleanor sighed.

“You have my word I will not try to escape,” Flint reassured her.

And why would he? Out there, it was all chaos and struggle and the turbulence of John Silver’s ever-questioning gaze. Inside the fortress was peace and Utley’s suddenly timid mouth asking “Can I return here tonight?” And who was Flint to deny him such a favor? After all, practice made perfect.

**Author's Note:**

> Well there it is! I've been threatening to write a Futley fic forever. I hope you enjoyed this and happy Flint Week!


End file.
